


Cracked

by Andrew (Skomie)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Bookstore Owner Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skomie/pseuds/Andrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel owns a deathtrap, also known as his used bookstore. Dean's just the polar bear the wind blew in. OR the one in which books have friends and the kindest words Dean's ever heard were said over a radiator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracked

 

It has to be cold enough to be a death sentence out here.

So cold you seriously can't not take a moment of silence to sympathize with all the arctic explorers past and present. So cold you seriously can't not wonder how brain damaged they'd have to be to actually choose this voluntarily, _'In the name of science my freezing ass'_. The likelihood of seeing a polar bear in the middle of Boston has hit about 50% - up from its usual never ever. Without the shroud of dramatics the reality is that it's about -3° out right now and if he'd been wearing anything other than a zip up hoodie on the day he decided to leave his car parked in a no-parking zone then this might be less of problem.

He calls the first cab company Google spits out and nearly makes it, bouncing up and down - no judgment below 10°, about 2 minutes on the street corner before an overly aggressive breeze slaps him hard in the face and sends him ducking into the nearest shop before frostbite becomes an immediate concern.

"How might I help you this frigid morning?"

Dean's only about a foot in the door when he nearly topples over a stack of books piled smack in the middle of the floor. He rights them before he's single-handedly responsible for the Great Paper Catastrophe of '15, barely, which is not exactly the easiest of feats since the full use of his extremities isn't all systems go. Arms are definitely there, fingers are still labeled as questionable.

"Uh? Hey, man," he mumbles out, grabbing the hood off his head and checking to make sure his ears are still in fact attached despite all senses declaring otherwise.

"My filing system isn't exactly orthodox. Less sort by genre and author, more shove them in with other books they'd be friends with."

Dean finally get's a good look at the guy and he doesn't look the typical bat shit crazy. I mean, he's wearing a sweatshirt with a Christmas tree on it even though that particular holiday occurred two weeks ago and his hair kind of looks like it got into a fight with a blow-dryer and the look in his (holy shit blue) eyes doesn't scream, _'Dear God I'm just kidding,'_ like they should be but other than that. No, not especially crazy.

"Your books have friends?"

The guy nearly scoffs, brows knitting together. "Of course not, they're books." He takes a sweeping look around the store before settling back on Dean. "Shopping here takes a little imagination."

There's suddenly a staring contest going on that only one of them is phased about and it isn't blow-dryer guy.

"I'm waiting on a cab, I was hoping you wouldn't mind lending some time your radiator and window until it shows up?"

"If you want to stand around in a shop full of books not shopping for one you at least have to tell the owner who your favorite author is," he shrugs. "Store policy."

"Vonnegot." It comes out before he really thinks about it. Before he can consider hiding behind a different answer that is less likely to warrant the, _'Yeah, right,'_ look that always follows. An answer that people can wrap him up in easier.

But the guy doesn't seem surprised, he doesn't even pause. "Favorite work of his?"

"Cat's Cradle," and there's the verbal vomit again. He presses for more to say while racing the, _'Good try, let's see if you can name another one.'_ "I know that it's the equivalent of Shakespeare's Romeo  & Juliet, the one they ram down every high schoolers' throats and all, but-"

"Classics are classics for a reason. You don't have to qualify what you love for other people. You are what you love, whether people get it or not."

That's not the type of thing you just say to someone you don't know but it is the type of thing a lot of people, known or otherwise, need to hear. Something about the way his head tilt is reaching a medically dubious angle or the aborted, "What?" he tried to asks but just sort of chokes on stirs up a smile in the weird bed head guy with the weird bookstore who says weird shit who Dean is not so slowly becoming obsessed with. It's the freaking cold, brain cells just don't fire right at this temperature. The wind had to of blown out more than few of those flames.

There's a step taken in his direction, then two, until the polite company personal space bubble Dean's sort of attached to has definitely burst. "Your freckles stand out better when your cheeks aren't so red."

"Dean," he blurts out. "My name, it's Dean." It's better than the, _'You are from this planet, right?'_ that may have come out if given the chance.

"Well, Dean, I'd be happy to reach for 1984 just about any day but that doesn't mean I'm too worldly to read The Hunger Games. The former is praised as one of the greatest dystopian novels we'll ever see and the other is shoved aside as a rashly written series with worse film adaptions whose sole audience should be teenage girls. But they're still friends."

"I thought we had already clarified that books didn't have friends?"

"Imagination. Learn or Leave," with a complete lack of sincerity. "So. Team Peeta or Gale?" Dean's pretty sure he's back to red before the guy even busts out laughing. "Oh God, don't answer that. New store policy: You never answer that."

"You're a piece of work, you know that?"

The corners of his eyes crinkle before sliding over, past his shoulder. "And I believe your cab has arrived."

Dean snaps around and sure enough, a bright yellow car is at the curb beeping curtly to call attention to itself.

"Right. Well thanks. For," gesturing vaguely at the shop, "you know. Yeah, okay."

Hand is on the door knob before, "It's Cas. Bring coffee next time. Radiator rent," and some of the sincerity is back.

He doesn't turn around until he has his fingers wrapped around the weight of the cab door. _Cracked Open_ , In gold letters carved out of a rich wood sign, _Pre-Worn Bookstore_.

Coffee, next time. Yeah.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I, of course, am already tempted to revisit this. Don't add to it.
> 
> Totally unbeta'd so the many mistakes are mine.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
